Chapter Three
He could hear the phone quietly ringing somewhere in the distance, the ring tone was Beethoven’s ninth symphony, a fitting tune for the warm comfortable place he had found himself on the sand to watch the waves crash on the beach.
Bloody cell phones can let people reach you anywhere, he thought.
The ringing got louder, the waves started to disappear into the horizon. Left in their place was a feather duvet wafting up and down in front of his face. “Your phone is ringing”, the duvet was telling him in a singsong female voice. He opened his eyes fully just as the duvet settled on top of him, looking around with a start at the vaguely familiar surroundings. He saw a shapely half-naked figure walking out through a door on the other side of the room.
He tried to sit up, his head protested and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The ringing got louder, its piercing screech drilling into the hangover making itself at home in his head. He followed the sound to the side of the bed and saw his cell phone vibrating itself across the bare wooden floorboards.
Picking it up he could see the caller display showing a private number, reminding him painfully that he was supposed to be at work. Perhaps that last drink offered last night was not such a good idea, then when had it ever been a good idea to mix beer with whiskey.
He pulled himself out of his lethargy and stood up unsteadily. Jaded memories of last night flashed in the damaged synapses of his aching brain. Pressing answer, he mumbled something unintelligible into the mouthpiece.
"Mike Bridger? You’re not the person I expected to hear on the phone this morning". The voice was raspy but unnaturally chirpy. "The way you were putting them away last night I'm surprised you’re still alive. Have you even been home yet or did you sleep in the bar?" There was some chuckling followed by a coughing fit.
"I pulled the weekend duty shift John, but you already knew that. That’s why you’re calling me, what do you want?"
"I guess it's not every day you get to celebrate a promotion is it Mike, but you looked as if you were celebrating for two last night, I don't know how Laura puts up with you. She must be a saint".
Bridger tried to swallow through his dry mouth. He remembered Laura had called his cell phone in the very early hours of the morning. She was ‘just wondering’ when he was going to be home. He could not remember the excuse he had given her., but it was then she had turned on him and confronted him in the cellular world of his mobile phone about being out all night drinking. He could not really say anything, he could not think of what to say anyway so he just held his breath and let her speak.
She had stopped short of accusing him of having an affair, but he could sense the question unspoken in her breathy sigh, he was almost glad of the distance that the phone offered.
'You're an alcoholic wanker' was the last thing she had said to him as she had cut the connection.
Bridger looked at the cell phone in his hand now, a very different conversation. He shook his head ruefully, then he looked over at the door the naked figure had walked through; guilt was a hard emotion to feel with a hangover.
A few drinks here and there doth not an alcoholic make, he thought. A sharp stabbing pain shot behind his eyes and faded into the back of his head in a slight throb.
Hangovers were becoming an occupational hazard lately and it was only varying degrees of pain that reminded Bridger how much he had put away the previous night. 'Just the one' always ended differently, depending on his mood.
"I'm not really in the mood this morning John, can you get on with it".
Bridger did not need the telephone speaker to hear the slow intake of breath from Senior Sergeant John Maine sitting comfortably in the watch-house at the Dunedin Central Police Station less than four blocks away. He had a way of projecting his feelings that you could not ignore.
"Listen Mike, you know I would not pass this sort of thing on to your lot normally, but Matthews called me from his home and told me to pass it on to you personally, he knew you were on duty weekend. I wouldn't take any notice usually but all my boys are busy dealing with the baddies and the paperwork from last night’s ‘Rumble in the Jungle’".
More memories flashed before him like a movie trailer. The front door of the Jungle Bar -
trying to get in - a prick of a bouncer - a group of students - things getting out of hand - a fight he may or may not have been involved in - faces he may or may not have recognized in the car loads of blue uniforms arriving shortly after. He thought it best not to mention this memory.
It was not actually called the Jungle Bar, being aptly named the Revive Club, but over the years the locals started calling it the’ Jungle Bar’ due to the amount of older woman, or 'Cougars', that would be prowling around the dance floor looking to pick off the young and the weak.
Not the sort of place he normally went to, preferring the civil surroundings of the Duke of Wellington at the south end of town, a place that modeled itself on the old English corner Pub. That was much more his style, but needs must.
"Mike, are you still there?”
"Yeah John, listen, I need a quick shower then I will be right in, I need to clear up my head a bit before thinking of any work".
"Fair enough Mike…, you want me to lay on the scones and jam, or the paracetamol, it's not often we get a Detective Sergeant in our office". Bridger could sense the smile in his voice.
"Shut it John, I will see you shortly".
Bridger sat down on the edge of the large bed and looked around; he saw his clothes hung on the back of an expensive leather chair. Both his jeans and t-shirt folded nicely on the seat.
That is not my work, he thought to himself.
He looked around the expensively furnished room. Everything was in its place; he could not see a single pair of stray underpants or discarded clothing. A very fastidious person lived here; it certainly was not his place then.
He heard a shower running in the next room. He pictured the person who would be in there, naked and probably covered in soap. He felt himself becoming slightly aroused at the thought. This was Jane's bedroom, in her apartment that she kept for when she worked late or when she was entertaining. Apparently she lived a long way out of town.
Jane would be in the shower now, a warm steamy place Bridger knew he should actually avoid if he was going to get into work. Selfishly, he also did not want to get into any deep conversations about why they always ended up in bed together after a function. Get in and get out.
Jane Little was a lawyer with a local firm, Jones Allen, and she was Bridger's only addiction. They were not exactly having an affair, but every so often, once or twice a year, sometimes more, their paths would cross and they would both have too much to drink.
It had not taken much that first time, just a little flattery thrown his way, appealing to his sense of worth; he had taken a risk and gone with it. She turned out to be very open in a sexual way. She didn't show any embarrassment when she had described in his ear what she had wanted to do, and she hadn’t failed to live up to her promise. He had actually surprised himself, he wasn’t normally one for rash decisions, but it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world to follow her home that first night. Like a siren beckoning a sailor on to the rocks, she had whispered sweet nothings in his ear, and like a fool, he had taken a bite of the apple.
Now when he saw her in those situations it would be like a shot of cocaine to his system, something carnal and uncontrollable. He knew when he saw Jane he wanted her, on some base level, more than he did anything.
He tried to remember the last time he had felt that way about his wife. He still found Laura attractive, more than attractive if he really thought about it, but she had this way of making him feel insecure, she always held back as if she had realized that settling for him had been a mistake but she could not bring herself to end it. They were probably unfounded emotions, he knew that Laura had never expressed anything that should make him feel that way, but he still coul
d not shake the feelings.
With Jane, he felt no expectations to live up to, no baggage between them. He could relax and enjoy himself.
Jane had been very accommodating to start with, never wanting anything more from him than physical pleasure. They had not spoken about anything deeper than what got them excited at the time. That suited Bridger as he found himself craving for the touch of a woman. That part of his relationship with Laura had soured a long time ago, but then they never seemed to be a very affectionate couple. Now it seemed that they were only intimate when they were drunk, and then he felt it was more out of habit. Jane was a completely different kettle of fish.
Lately though Jane had taken to ringing him up at odd times, asking him to come over for a drink and a chat. He thought he knew exactly where that would lead and so was always making excuses. He was not ready to cut the connection with his wife, still believing out of stubbornness that they may find common ground again.
The alcohol had taken away those excuses last night though, and he had found himself waking this morning in Jane’s now familiar bedroom, still wearing his boxers, unsure if it had gone any further than sleeping.
He did not want to get into it this morning so quietly gathered his stuff together, dressed, and slipped out the front door.
Out in the cold air he rubbed at the stubble on his chin, took a deep breath and started walking towards the town centre and the Central Police Station.
Walking into the ‘Senior's office, Bridger could detect the faint whiff of cigarette smoke. There was no smoking allowed in the station but that did not apparently apply to the craggy old Senior Sergeant sitting behind the desk with his feet up on the wooden surface. It looked to him like a scene from the Godfather, the Mafia Don holding court with his family, an ashtray full of used cigarette butts sat on the corner of the desk, smoke rising lazily into the air. A tumbler full of whiskey was the only thing he needed to complete the scene.
Bridger's head was thumping, the smell of cigarette smoke causing his stomach to churn a little. He could see Maine appraising his appearance with a little amusement.
"Bloody hell Bridger you look worse than you sounded on the phone. Is that last night’s t shirt?”
"I thought smoking was banned in the workplace". Bridger managed as a reply.
"I couldn't give a shit about a petty ban; if I need my fix I will bloody well have it. It was good enough for us in the old days and it has not changed in my eyes. I still remember the smoky confines of a public bar, those were the days". Maine’s eyes looked down as he spoke, a slight wistfulness in his last comment.
"What can I do for you Senior Sergeant?” Bridger said, changing the subject.
Maine's fingers were absently tapping a piece of paper on the desk. He turned the form towards him and pushed it forwards.
Focusing his eyes a little Bridger could see it was a standard police form, one used for recording missing persons.
Normally a job for the uniforms, Bridger was thinking to himself, wondering why Matthews wanted him to attend.
"By the look on your face, you have put your newfound Detective Sergeant detecting skills to the test and deducted what I need you to do".
As opposed to the plain old Detective Constable skills I had yesterday, thought Bridger tiredly.
He gave Maine a tight smile.
"Although it would be a big ask for even Sherlock Holmes to detect anything through those piss holes in the snow you call eyes", Maine added, smiling himself.
Bridger was too tired for any banter. "Matthews asked you to pass on a missing person to me?” he queried, "It's not something I've had to deal with for a while".
"I don't normally get a call from an off duty Inspector asking me to look into something", Maine said, "He had the details for me, from what I gather from our brief conversation he has had someone contact him about it and needs it done ASAP. He wouldn't go into anymore details than that".
"Ok John, if him upstairs has directed it, then who am I to argue", he said while looking at the partially completed form.
Marion Watson, 27 yrs old, reported missing by her mother.
"I owe you one Mike, just go and see what the story is, go through the motions, then pass it back to me for follow up. You have not forgotten the motions in your scramble up the slippery pole have you".
That is all I bloody need, Bridger thought, as he left the office. He was not planning to do a lot this morning after his night out the previous evening. There goes the day hiding behind my desk.
Technically Maine was not Bridger's boss, as he was in the Criminal Investigation Branch and Maine was one of the Senior Sergeants in charge of the General Duties Constables, still finding their feet in the job, so he did not really have any say in his day-to-day workload.
Bridger had worked under John Maine when he first arrived in Dunedin as a Constable himself. Maine was an old school copper, with old school ideas but Bridger actually respected his abilities, and he thought the feeling was mutual, so they had an easy working relationship. Maine had a face ravaged by a lifetime of hard drinking, shift work and cigarette smoke, something that he was actually quite proud of; Bridger had heard him heralding the virtues of work hard play hard on a number of occasions.
If that is how he wants to live his life, who was he to argue, but a bit of moisturizer would not go astray, he thought to himself, smiling through the pain in his head.
As long as he had known him, he knew next to nothing about John Maine outside of the job, except that he had been a Senior Sergeant when Bridger had arrived in Dunedin all those years ago. He had obviously not learnt to climb any further up the slippery pole himself as he called it.
He could have just told him he was too busy with other urgent work, but with inspector Matthews fingers in the pie he could not really hide from this one, however bad he felt, which is why Bridger now found himself walking out to the rear yard in search of one of his squads allocated cars.
Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 4